


Dirty Tactics

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [7]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:13:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2296193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About to have a showdown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Tactics

Wednesday, December 22, 1999 (cont.)

As soon as they return to their room, Numbers makes the call to Fargo.

Wrench hangs back for a moment before sauntering over to the ratty armchair and heavily dropping himself into it. He’s exhausted—they both are—yet his still-boiling rage is probably the only thing propelling his consciousness forward from one second to the next. He glowers at the back of Numbers’ head, occasionally drumming his fingers against the table with bratty impatience as he waits for him to finish up and relay their next move. Maybe Numbers can find an exciting new way to nearly ruin this, too.

Across the room, Numbers rubs at his heavy eyelids and monotonously rattles off the information into the receiver. “…said his buddy, Lagler, helped him out. Teamed up with somebody called Petroske.”

His contact grunts, “Hang on,” before placing him on hold, and the dead air quickly jumps back to life in the form of a smooth jazz piece. Numbers grimaces, wishing he had a drink.

“We have someone in Duluth who’s been monitoring Lagler,” the guy finally says, graciously ending the musical hell that Numbers had been thrust into. “Call when you get there.”

Numbers sets the phone on the cradle, groaning. He swears he can _feel_ Wrench’s eyes boring into his skull, and he dreads the rapidly-approaching moment where he’d have to turn around and address him.

He hadn’t spoken to Wrench at all on their drive back or during breakfast. Even when the waiter asked for their orders he had refused to interpret for him, leaving Wrench to angrily stab his finger at a picture on the menu. He felt guilty then and feels residual pangs of it now, but he didn’t want to give Wrench a single opportunity to throw what happened at the lake back in his face. When he first learned sign language almost twenty years ago he quickly realized how easy it was to shut down someone’s only line of communication by refusing to look at them, denying them any claim in a conversation. It’s an outright dirty thing to do, like kicking a guy when he’s already face-down in the dirt. Numbers is well-acquainted with both tactics.

The _thump_ of Wrench’s fist meeting the table goads Numbers to turn his head enough to witness Wrench signing, _“What now?”_

 _“Duluth, as soon as we can,”_ Numbers says, almost cautiously. He situates himself on the lumpy bed, leaning against the headboard. _“We need to rest,”_ he signs, punctuating this with a yawn. _“At five or six, we’ll leave.”_ He shuts his eyes, the ire he felt on the ice as far away as the lake itself. If anything, he’s embarrassed, and he would trade that for another bout of fury in a heartbeat.

A second, louder _thump_ reaches his ears and he glances to Wrench again.

_“Why Duluth?”_

_“Got a guy there. Knows about L-A-G-L-E-R.”_

Wrench nods solemnly at this, his bright eyes still flashing with anger. For a moment it seems like he’s trying to decide whether or not to say anything else, staring off at the far wall and working his knuckles as he clenches a fist. After a final, definitive _thump_ on the table to redirect Numbers’ focus back to him, his hands delicately, tactfully say, _“That can’t happen again,”_ though resentment certainly lies behind the gestures.

Numbers winces as if Wrench had struck him across the face. _“I know.”_

 _“It shouldn’t have happened at all,”_ Wrench’s hands say, moving faster this time, with more tenacity.

_“I **know** —”_

_“Fargo said you were experienced, not some kid I’d have to babysit.”_

“Stop,” Numbers hisses, color rising to his cheeks. Wrench’s glare narrows as Numbers signs, _“Don’t go there with me.”_

And just like Numbers knows exactly how much harm stonewalling can cause, Wrench understands that words can sting even more if you know how to use them. He's too tired to be sure of exactly which button to press, so he decides to push all of them like a kid in an elevator, and rapidly fires off, _“What kind of shitty hitman are you? Can’t do a job without getting sick. Can’t get it up for that girl at the restaurant. Can’t get a drink without crying into it. You’re pathetic,”_ he says, watching Numbers’ face intently, waiting for him to crack. _“Worthless,”_ he tacks on, huffing as his fingers flick outward.

Before Numbers can stop himself he’s standing, and Wrench follows suit. A few tense moments pass, each man sizing the other up like two outlaws in the Old West about to have a showdown. Eventually some of the red fades from Numbers’ cheeks and the corners of his mouth pull up into a smirk. Wrench might want to play this game, but Numbers wants to win. “At least I didn’t leave you to die.”

Wrench reads enough of Numbers’ words to understand the sentiment behind them. His nostrils flare and he barks out a hollow, harsh laugh; a split-second later he’s lunging at Numbers.

Numbers possesses neither enough time nor the right frame of mind to react. Later, he’ll blame his idleness on the fatigue or the surplus of emotions that are firing through his brain, or maybe even hand it to his partner for getting in such a good shot.

But regardless of where the fault lays, Wrench is grabbing a fistful of Numbers’ shirt with one hand and punching him in the mouth with the other.

When he’s through, Wrench lets go of Numbers and observes him as he swipes at the crimson oozing from his split bottom lip. He doesn’t feel any better, having hit him; if possible, he feels worse. Not angry anymore, just empty. He turns away, allowing his partner the dignity to tend to his wound in private.

Numbers, instinctively, preys on Wrench’s momentary kindness: as soon as his body completes its one-eighty he whips him around by his upper arm and sucker punches him right in the eye. It stings the hell out of his hand but watching Wrench double over and hiss, clutching his face, makes the pain worth it.

By the time Wrench looks up again Numbers is at the door, his bag at his feet and his shaking hands saying, _“Getting my own room. Have your shit ready by five."_  

After the door slams shut Wrench puts his fist through the wall, finding it a poor substitute for Numbers’ face.


End file.
